Another Taste
by Hermia S
Summary: Sequel to Hot as a Dwarven Forge. After getting a dismissive word from Zevran via letter, Shiloh Amell goes to the only man she knows will let her drink her sorrows. Two pints later, she realizes she isn't lonely at all.


**A/N:** Outing myself from the kinkmeme again! Though the prompt itself was my fault for voicing a desire for more Oghrenlove. I saw this one and I couldn't help myself. It was perfect for Shiloh and Oggie:

"It has been brought to my attention by a lovely anon a few posts up that there is a serious lack of f!Warden/Oghren prompts...and I concur. Oghren is the MAN, and needs some sexytimes.

So I propose: f!Warden of any origin -except- dwarven, just broke up with Zev/Ali/Leli, and is miserable. Oghren offers his flask in consolation, the two get wrecked, and have some awesome rebound sex.

Bonus points for lulzy between-the-sheets banter.  
Extra bonus points for f!Warden using Oghren's beard as handlebars. XD"

So. Yes. Enjoy!

* * *

Sitting cross-legged on the throne just behind Varel, the Warden Commander stared down at the parchment in her hands. Her jaw worked, brow twitching as she glared down at the words. Even his handwriting was too much to look at right now, but she couldn't take her eyes off of the words scrawled on the page, none of which she could believe. After all that had been said between them, he refused to return to the Keep? Was he so consumed by a singular vision that he completely disregarded those who truly needed him?

Revenge. He called it "cleaning up," but she knew he was only there to make sure no one came after him any longer. Of course, he peppered this letter with the sly words she was so used to, and if she hadn't been so furious, she might have been charmed by them. As luck would have it, with all that was happening around Ferelden, she couldn't have cared less.

Crumpling the letter in her fist, Shiloh Amell slouched against the back of the throne, her narrowed eyes searching the room for anything that would lighten her spirits.

She didn't have time for Zevran's nonsense. She'd written to him innumerous times in the past few months only to receive _this_. He pranced around the subject as if it'd burn the soles off of his boots if he so much as tread anywhere close to it, barely touching upon their relationship – or what could scarcely be described as one – and only then with such condescension it almost made her sick.

The throne room was empty for the most part. Many of the new recruits had shuffled off to bed after arriving back "home" from a long stay in Amaranthine. Helping assist the people of the city in rebuilding had seemed like a genuinely good idea until she was picking the twelfth splinter out of her palm. She wasn't built for manual labor. Truly, she wasn't built for any sort of labor, but the year and a half she'd spent traversing Fereldan had done wonders to her figure. At least she could run up a few staircases carrying a full pack and her staff without getting winded now.

Only Varel, Nathaniel, and Oghren remained. Varel stood as still as stone in front of her, hands clasped behind him, and Nate was flipping through some manual she'd picked up for him during their travels. She couldn't remember what it was about exactly, but she hoped it was as fulfilling as it seemed to be. Better than that trash she'd caught Sig reading. And Oghren? Well, Oghren was standing by the cask, shoulders propped up against it, arms crossed high on his torso.

Shutting her eyes, she drew a breath. A drink; she could definitely use a drink before she took to writing the reply that was already formulating in her mind. "Varel," she said, her voice soft. He turned around, brows peaked in curiosity. "The evening is yours to do what you wish." Rising from the throne, she gave him a small smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "As is tomorrow. You have done enough."

"Are you sure, Commander?" he asked. "There's so much to be done..."

"I'm sure."

Nodding, Varel bowed his head in a psuedo-formal gesture before turning and leaving the throne room. She wasn't entirely sure where he'd go or what he'd do, but she knew he wouldn't actually take the evening off. If anything, he would find his way to the study and work on the books at the distaste of Mistress Woolsey or end up polishing his sword for the rest of the night. Wincing at the less than innocent mental image, Shiloh wavered slightly on her feet. His _actual_ sword.

She found that if Nathaniel Howe was anything, it was observant. Whether it was from her dismissal of Varel or the tight, pained expression on her face, he took that as his cue to be off, shutting his book and offering her a nod before leaving her mostly alone.

Just as she was passing the large fireplace in the center of the room, she tossed the crumpled letter into the flames, disregarding the crackle and pop as it turned to ash. That would certainly be the last of him, she decided.

When he saw her approaching, Oghren pushed himself up from the cask, though he leaned one shoulder against it just after, managing an almost suave expression when she stepped up next to him. She couldn't even break the dire look on her face to greet him with a smile, instead reaching for one of the mugs on the shelf beside the cask. "Out of my way, Warden," she huffed, though the order was given in surprisingly good nature given her state.

"Bad news from the elf, I take it?"

She actually _cringed_. Shiloh Amell, the hero of Ferelden, defeater of the Blight, savior of all things human, elf, dwarf, fluffy, and cute, cringed at the mere mention of her problem, however spot-on it was. Pulling at the cork, she stared at the amber liquid that sloshed forth into her mug, ignoring whatever spilled onto the floor beneath it. She shut the cask and turned, sliding down the column dividing the booze and the books, less than careful when it came to the high slits in her robes.

"If you can call it news," she mumbled, lifting the mug to her lips. She didn't sip. She didn't even take a swallow. She chugged. She chugged harder than he'd ever seen her chug, and honestly, that was more of a turn on than those skimpy robes had ever been. He knew this woman could drink; they'd gotten sloshed countless times in Denerim. But he also knew that when she was angry, she drank even more. When she was _this_ angry, she could actually keep up with him.

"Five letters," Shiloh continued, holding up an open palm to him, not even bothered that he wasn't looking at her, but filling his own pint. "Five. And I get one in return. One sodding letter, telling me things aren't as interesting in Antiva as they were here?" Setting the already half-empty mug on her knees, she glared at nothing in particular, her bright blue eyes focused on the far wall. "Ah, yes, _after _you deal with the Crows, we can be together. That sounds fantastic, Zevran. But until then, I'll just sit by and wait until you've finished with this ridiculous business of killing every damned assassin in Antiva City. Surely as the Warden Commander of Ferelden, I have nothing better to do."

Once Oghren was finished pulling his own pint, he took a long drink from it, wiping his beard on his arm. He'd taken to wearing armor less often now that they were stationed at the Keep more often than not, and the remnants of ale left a dark smear on the back of his sleeve. "You'd think with a girl like you waitin' back home, he'd make quick work of those Crows."

"Yes, well, clearly there is quite a lot of them." Taking a deep breath, she released it in a sigh. She'd grown used to the few compliments that Oghren managed to slide into conversation now and again. He meant well by them. They were even sweet on occasion.

After their night together not long after the fall of the Archdemon, they'd grown even closer as friends, though they hadn't been together in quite the same sense afterward. He'd gone off to Felsi, which was the right thing to do, wasn't it? She'd only just had a child, after all. And Shiloh ended up back in the arms of the Antivan assassin. She'd always been a sucker for pretty words, and his words weren't only pretty, but they were accented. With the realization that she and Oghren's... "relationship" was nothing more than a friendship turned into a one night stand, which turned into nothing more than a stronger friendship, she was okay with this. Until he left for Antiva without saying a word.

Now Zevran was out of the picture and a few weeks before, she'd happened to overhear an argument between Felsi and Oghren. Things were over between them, despite the child, but neither of them seemed too broken up about it. It bothered her to think about it, but she imagined he was used to this sort of thing now, after what had happened with Branka.

Without even asking, Oghren took her pint out of her hands and refilled it. "Get up," he said brusquely. "It's obvious ya need to talk. Here's not the place. Grab another pint; we'll find somewhere else."

Her brows pinched upwards as she looked at him. "Yeah, you're right. I do." Climbing up onto her feet, she grabbed the first pint and then the next, watching as he grabbed three of his own. He was surprisingly graceful when he wasn't _very_ drunk, and he carried the three pints with trained expertise as they made their way in the direction of her room. Bumping a hip into the door, it creaked open without much protest, though a little ale sloshed over the side of the mug, onto the floor.

Oghren kicked the door closed behind them, making his way over to the low-lying table in front of the generous fire. He put the mugs down beside hers and plopped down unceremoniously in the empty chair at her side. "So, what's this mess with Zevran about? Still sticking his knives where they don't belong?"

Shiloh gave a harsh bark of a laugh as she pulled her legs up onto the chair. Licking her full bottom lip free of ale, she took another thirsty gulp before letting the crown of her head fall back against the chair. "I'm so sodding tired of waiting around for him. The first time, he just up and feigned disinterest in me," she began, holding out her index finger, her head tilted just far enough in his direction to look into his face. "And then when we ended up back together, he just _left_. Out of nowhere. Went to bed one night with him right there, and I woke up the next morning alone. No note, no nothing."

Brushing the heel of her palm over her forehead, she groaned. "I sound like his _mother_." She shook her head, tilting the mug back for another long drink. The beginnings of warmth were sweeping inside of her veins, coating them in a delicious heat that she missed when it wasn't there, especially recently. If Zevran turned her into an alcoholic, she was going to singe the hair right off of his head. "Anyway, I wrote to him. Five times, like I mentioned. And then I get this entirely casual letter, like he was writing to an acquaintance, not his lover. Though I am most certainly NOT his lover any longer."

"It's so sodding stupid; I know I deserve bet –"

"You deserve better anyway," Oghren muttered at the very same time, though he didn't seem anywhere as surprised by their overlapping comments as she was. "The elf doesn't know what he's missin' out on, is all."

An actual grin curled at the corner of her mouth, and she leaned the slightest bit in his direction, still nursing the same mug of ale. Wiping the froth on her upper lip away with the back of her hand, she chuckled. "And you do?" she asked, looking at him with an expectant look on her face, as if to say, _Come on, Oghren. I could do with a bit of an ego boost right now_.

"Of course I know what he's missin' out on. Once I taste something, I don't forget it right after," he said matter-of-factly, as if it was the most obvious statement in the history of the world. "Plus, you were my first human. Don't forget that sort of thing, either."

"So being _me_ has nothing to do with it?" There was no venom behind the statement. She asked him straight, sipping thoughtfully on the last few drops of her pint before leaning forward to set it on the table with a triumphant expression.

Oghren gave a snort of laughter, tilting his pint back as far as he could to lap up the last of the ale. When he was satisfied, he let the mug droop across his lap for a moment before setting it down beside her empty one. "You bein' you is the main reason I haven't forgotten ex-_actly_ what the elf's missin' out on." She could tell that he was being honest; Oghren was incapable of delivering that sort of lie with a straight face, after all.

"How are things with you, Oghren?" she asked, narrowly avoiding the desire to ask him to explain his statement in full detail. Any ego stroking would have to wait. "Any word from Felsi?"

He didn't so much as blink. After two years of shrugging off mention of any pain Branka's abandonment caused, what he felt about Felsi hitting the road wasn't nearly as difficult to shirk as it would have been to anyone else. "No need to worry, Shi. This Warden's as stable as the rest of 'em. Which is a sodding miracle all things considered." He laughed again, though this time it was more of a giggle. "Either that or you've recruited a bunch of people not fit for their damn job."

"Ugh, I miss Morrigan," Shiloh muttered, "And Wynne. And Sten. And Alistair. And –"

"C'mere," Oghren interrupted her. She looked at him, her eyes wide, just in time to see him grab for the arm of her chair and quite literally yank her over. The chair let out a low, grinding sound against the stones that made up the floor, and she squealed, her fingers digging into the cushioned seat. He laughed again, mostly at the almost childish sound she made, though there was no shortage of glee in the man's stocky form when he saw her adjust herself just as quickly as she'd reacted.

Without a word, she twined her fingers around the four braids in his beard and pulled him forward without the slightest trace of delicacy. She knew better. Tenderness was better suited for the likes of people who'd seen far less than they had, suited for men like Alistair and for the simpering ladies who posed no threat whatsoever to Anora due to their sheer lack of spine.

The taste of ale on his lips was so pungent, she felt as if she was drinking it straight from his mouth. His hair no longer smelled like the soap he'd borrowed from Zevran the last time they'd been so close. No, this was entirely Oghren; of ale and barely scrubbed musk, of sweat. Even though it'd been years since he'd left Orzammar, she could smell the stone on his skin, could catch hints of it in each breath, lining the taste of ale as if an afterthought.

This was as _Oghren_ as Oghren could possibly get.

And, Maker, she wanted more.

She tugged on the braids, her hands curling even tighter around them as she groaned into his mouth. He was more than eager to go with it, his hands resting on the undersides of her arms as he pulled her closer at the same time. It only took them a moment until they were pressed up against each other, her tongue darting out from between her parted lips to sweep along his, lapping greedily at whatever ale lingered there.

He met her with just as much gusto, though there was an added element that hadn't been there the first time this had happened. Longing; she could taste it almost as clearly as the booze, and it only drove her to let go of the braids and dig her fingers into the thicket of red hair atop his head.

When he felt her nails against his scalp, he growled into the kiss, and his grip on her arms doubled. He couldn't stop himself. Ever since Felsi had shown up to throw his leaving for the Wardens in his face, he'd pushed and pushed. He'd hit the cask even harder than before, thrown himself to even more dangerous situations, swung his sword and brandished his title with more panache than he even knew was possible. He had no reason to limit himself. Nothing was stopping him now.

Shiloh tore away from him, but not before giving his bottom lip a grinding bite. Her limbs were on the clumsy side as she stood up from her chair even more quickly than she'd sat down on it, hands going to the laces on the front of her robes. They were loose enough in mere moments, and Oghren watched with an unblinking stare as she peeled it off of her. The things were tight, far too tight for her to even bother with a breast bind.

His pulse sped when she turned around and grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him towards her. But he was much stronger and he had even more of a reason to have his way. All it took was a single tug and she was on his lap, sitting astride him without an ounce of shame. The moan that left her was woven through with laughter as his beard tickled the sensitive flesh of her breasts, though any giggling was silenced the moment she felt his tongue roll a circle around her nipple, his thick-fingered, calloused hand gripping at the flesh of her waist.

Even as she rocked forward, her hips grinding against the already growing bulge in his pants, his concentration never once swayed. He kissed and licked and sucked on her breasts, moving from one to the other and back again as she only increased her pace, unable to keep her motions slow and methodical. She had no patience for taking her time right now. Maybe later, when her anger and the pulse of ale in her bloodstream had weakened, she might take her time with him. That wasn't what she needed right now, and she was willing to bet that it wasn't what he needed, either.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just hard enough at the vibrant red strands to pull him away and tilt his head back. Planting a pair of clumsy kisses near his ear, she ground forward a second time only to hear a rumbling moan move through him. The sound delighted her. "Get into bed, hm?" she near-purred, punctuating the rhetorical question with a suggestive flick of her tongue.

That was all it took. He very nearly pushed her off of him and hurried over to her bed, kicking off his boots and stripping the shirt from his stocky frame in all of a moment. She watched him as he toed off his socks, hands working the cord holding his trousers up. Once they were defeated, he cast them off and turned to her in one surprisingly fluid motion. His arms were barely lifted by his sides when she hurried over to him, an almost giddy pep in her step that had been absent until then.

Oghren was strong in ways no other man she'd ever slept with had been. His arms wrapped tightly around her hips, and he hoisted her up with little more than a quiet grunt. Before turning and dropping her onto the bed, he planted an array of damp kisses along her ribs.

When she laughed and clutched at his shoulders, he smiled. That was what he'd been aiming for.

Now that he'd accomplished his first goal, it was time to go for the second. He'd made her laugh. It was time for him to make her say his name.

His eyes bored into her as she flopped back onto the bed, her entire body bouncing at the impact. Though she recovered quickly, a thin brown brow arching at him, there was a hint of a smile in the corner of her mouth, a tiny, but very amused smile.

"Come here," she murmured, wriggling her hips as she kicked her heels into the mattress, thrusting her way higher up onto the bed.

Never the sort to "get on and get off," he gave a huff of a laugh and climbed up onto the bed. He planted a few well-meaning kisses onto her throat, but it wasn't long before his hand was slipping down her stomach and into her smalls.

Swatting his hand away, Shiloh wrapped a leg around his middle and flipped him over onto his back.

"Oof! Yes, _ser_," he muttered, but not before letting out one of his lecherous giggles. After being the reason for so many of them, they'd gone from disconcerting to flattering. Now she just saw them as charming. Tilting her hips upwards, she slipped off her smallclothes without an ounce of hindrance before tossing them onto the floor.

Without saying a word, she pulled herself up until she was kneeling above him. Tossing her hair over one of her shoulders, she grabbed for the band of his smalls, peeling them downward with care only to let out a rush of breath at the sight of him. Andraste's tits, she'd forgotten how _wide_ it was.

He was giggling again, though this one was quiet and more impressed with himself than anything else. She looked up at him, and when he saw her expression, he went silent. Her eyes were half-lidded, her tongue dragging over the width of her generous bottom lip. The look of desire was enough to shut him up; she'd have to remember that for later, once they'd dressed and left the bedroom. No doubt it would be a helpful tip.

"Mm, Shi," Oghren growled, his hands gripping for purchase on the curve of her waist.

"Yes?"

The word rolled from her tongue as she lowered herself down upon him, her brow creasing as she strained to keep from whimpering at the sensation. She'd have commented on his girth, but there were few things dwarven men took pride in like their ale, their smithing, and their sodding _girth_. Instead, she rolled her hips forward, taking as much of him in as she could.

She recalled how gentle their first time together had been. Hot and sticky and intense, but gentle. He'd surprised her. It made her happy to realize that very little besides the climate had changed. It was cooler now, but their skin still slicked together when their movements grew quicker. She slid her hands into his hair and pressed the crown of his head into the mattress, her blue eyes narrowing into his sleepy gray ones.

Angry. She was angry. Zevran had deserted her. She tried to remind herself of this as she felt Oghren's mouth against her collarbone. She tried to force herself down, to ride him as hard as she could manage. But none of it happened. Her body refused to allow it. She was furious. She'd been deserted. He'd left her alone.

But she wasn't alone. True, Zevran had left her for the shores of Antiva, but she wasn't alone. And she hadn't been deserted by everyone. She had Oghren; an ale-swilling, belching, "lady killer" diamond in the rough. For months, she'd waited for a response to her letters. For months, she'd gone to bed alone, fretting and anxious, wondering exactly what she'd done to have him run off like that. Months she could have spent doing this.

Oghren's heel dug into the mattress as he arched his hips forward, curling into her and hitting... _that_. Maker, what _was_ that? Whimpering, she clutched him tighter, her eyes squeezing shut as she rocked backwards. Once more, she felt him fill her, felt him just _there_, and her entire body tensed around him, pulling a guttural moan from his lips. Again and again she felt it, the contact that made her tremble and shake and call his name, her fingertips digging into the mattress.

One more stroke was all it took, and she suddenly felt _full_ in a way she'd never experienced before. Full of bright light, her limbs full of tiny, percolating bubbles. Full of him. And, soon after, when he bucked forward, his dull nails digging into her back, full of his seed.

He pulled her down against him as tremors shook through her, hand clasping his wrist over her back, holding her as close to his chest as was possible. She pressed her forehead to his, her hands trembling as they brushed over the braids of his beard. "Holy Maker," she whispered, though the protestation was hardly audible due to her breathlessness.

"Your Maker didn't have anything to do with that."

Shiloh snorted, her arms sliding around his neck before she rolled over onto her side and pulled him with her. A leg hooked around his waist was enough to keep them attached; she wasn't willing to let go of that feeling just quite yet. "Perhaps not. Should I rephrase?"

"Mm," Oghren murmured an affirmative.

"Holy _Oghren_."

"Exaggeration?"

Scoffing, she snuggled closer to him, her lips moving against the creases in his forehead. "Not a word of it."

"Good to know I haven't lost my touch."

"You? Lose your touch?" Shiloh leaned back just far enough to look him in the eye only to see that his were already closed. "Darkspawn would sooner don a flowery bonnet."

Oghren laughed at that. His palm lay flat on the small of her back, hefting her even closer.

"Well, if you ever see a darkspawn in a flowery bonnet, don't say a word of it to me, alright?"

Giving him a tight squeeze of a hug, she nuzzled her nose into the apple of his cheek. "Promise."


End file.
